Couple
by ACtravels
Summary: John did think of them as a couple, just not in the same sense that everyone else seemed to think of them as a couple. More than friends in the way that simple friendship didn't explain everything that was Sherlock-and-John, but not in a consummated, romantic sort of way. It was just easier to say 'flatmate' than explain properly.
1. Chapter 1

After the day he'd had, John didn't think it was a physically possibility to trudge up the extra flight towards his bedroom before he fell asleep and had instead opted for collapsing into his seat for a respite, only to find his eyelids instantaneously began to be absurdly affected by gravity. He did normally try to avoid sleeping downstairs – and if he had a nice normal flatmate it might be because he didn't want to wake up with a moustache drawn on in sharpie, or something – but given it was _Sherlock_ it was more a case of waking up again to whatever Sherlock was doing was guaranteed to be unpleasant. Especially as Sherlock seemed inclined to _challenge _how unconscious unconscious-John actually was, assuming of course he even noticed John was there and _wasn't_ awake which wasn't always a given… but today Sherlock was in a 'silent' mood after the case hadn't gone exactly how he thought it should have done, with missing the crazed old-lady-murderer until she'd gotten in a second and had nearly gotten in a third.

John had often thought, in the weeks after moving in with one Sherlock Holmes, that he'd made up the business about being silent for days on end… but it did, as it turned out, happen. And it wasn't as pleasant as John had expected when Sherlock had talked at him continually for an hour about something or other (he'd stopped listening after the first five, and although those had been about recognising different line of 'Poison' – the perfume – that probably wasn't where the monologue had ended up).

Either Sherlock would snap out of it soon or John would spent the next few days nagging him continually to drink and eat and talking at an unresponsive zombie until something was _interesting_ enough for Sherlock to start rattling on again. Git.

John was still just about conscious behind his closed eyes as he decided that he was quite proud of Sherlock, really, for actually been affected by that second murder even if it was only to the extent of irritation at being wrong… but the jumpstart of Silent-Sherlock-mode the second they'd given a brief statement had rather taken Anderson by surprise. Not as surprised as the Yarders had been when they'd arrived at the crime scene to find John had taken out an old lady with a cricket bat, but after John had repeatedly explained that the lady was the _murderer _and was about to shoot Sherlock with one of those poisoned darts and he'd had _no choice _they'd turned their attention back to Sherlock so he could resume his gloating or have a go at all of them for not immediately suspecting that the kind old lady who they'd interviewed a week ago had been hell bent on getting revenge for her late husband. And he'd had that expression he'd had after John had said 'colleagues' in front of Sebastian Tosser-face that always struck John as a reminder that Sherlock was s_o human but…_

God, he was tired.

Sherlock had jerked him awake at about half five in the morning, having a go at him for not answering his texts and dragging him into a taxi whilst he was still trying to pull on his jumper. His trousers were _on top _of his pyjamas and he most definitely hadn't had a chance to shave, or piss, but Sherlock was ranting in panic mode about the old lady wearing her husband's aftershave wasn't as s_entimental _or _nostalgic _as John had deemed it to be earlier on in the week, or at least not in a sense that was innocent or invoked pity. There were also a lot of accusations sent in John's direction –about how trying to get Sherlock to feel sorry for the old lady, by comparing her with Miss Hudson and bringing sentiment into a purely factual issue had made him _miss it. _

And then they'd rushed into her house and found the dead body. And six AM was far too early for a body, in John's mind, especially when Sherlock seemed to be implying that the son-in-law had been shot in the back of the neck with a poisoned dart because _John_ had tried to pull out Sherlock's human side… and because he'd given the lady a hand putting up a set of shelves the day before, and because he'd gone to the pub with Bill Murray the night before – despite Sherlock flouncing around the flat declaring he _needed John_ not to go out and get plastered – and because he'd been up all night worrying and then…. Then there'd been the chase…and Sherlock hadn't told Lestrade _anything _and for a minute there he'd really thought he'd _killed _the frail old murderer-lady and, despite it all, he didn't want to add that onto his resume.

"_Why_?"

John peeled his eyes open in surprise, half expecting the question to be part of the beginning of a dream, but no – Sherlock was looking at him, slightly manically, standing in front of his chair and his very posture _demanding _an answer.

He'd thought that it would take at least twenty four hours for Sherlock to start talking again – and had almost been factoring that in in terms of getting a good night's sleep – and he was definitely too tired to start discussing _why._

Especially without the specifics as to what_ why_ they were talking about.

"You're going to have to backtrack," John said, pressing his fingers into his temples and trying to wake himself up a bit, "I found it a bit difficult to follow your internal thought process."

"Obviously." Sherlock said.

"Can this wait?"

"Why does it bother you?" Sherlock asked. Although the elaboration did a little to help with his cause of being understood, John thought that it didn't quite narrow down the specifics enough for him to be able to give an answer – a lot of things _bothered _him. Especially when living with Sherlock he spent most of his time _bothered. _

"If you're talking about the milk going off," John said, "I'd set myself up for a cup of tea. The dissected foot in one of the freezer bags… well, I might be a doctor and not squeamish but some things I don't want to see when I'm trying to find the diced pork, you borrowing my laptop is a privacy thing… and if you mean this conversation, it's because you don't exactly seem to be aiming for clarity or aiming to let me get to sleep, which are my current success criteria for conversation."

John yawned.

"The old lady," Sherlock began, pacing up and down the tiny stretch in front of John's chair (well, John often liked to think of it as _strutting _and imagined Sherlock as a gigantic peacock, but he didn't mention it), "she called you my boyfriend and then you hit her with the cricket bat."

"They weren't exactly connected issues."

He'd thought about writing this one onto the blog. It'd be a simple matter of adding in that sentence of dialogue – "your boyfriend did a great job at erecting my shelves" – whilst she held her odd weapon aloft and, second later, the cricket bat connecting with old lady, Sherlock texting Lestrade as John glanced down at the woman feeling oddly shocked. .. he didn't think he could face it, though. There was no way to write up the case without mentioning the fact that he'd taken the woman down, and he didn't quite want to get accusing of going into battle with the elderly widows of London.

He didn't even want Mrs Hudson to know about that one.

"You always correct everyone," Sherlock said, "_we're not a couple, of course we'll be needing two rooms, I'm not his date…"_

"Definitely going to need a cup of tea," John said, staring up at his mad tosser of a flatmate without really seeing him, pulling himself up off his chair and heading towards the kitchen.

"Why does it bother you?"

"You tell me."

"You don't care about what people think, John," Sherlock said, still talking from the other room as John flicked on the kettle and began trying to back track about whether or not he'd actually brought milk… he really thought he'd had, but that wasn't an actual full on given and he really didn't want to face the disappointment of no tea again. Particularly as Sherlock was happening and his head was surely about to explode within the next twenty seconds, "lack of prejudice, your blog posts, army, your sister is _gay, _John, common assumptions shouldn't matter to you and yet you continually waste your breath correcting other people's stupidity."

"Isn't that what you do for a living?"

"Last three girlfriends have broken up with you for related causes, but not due to the original assumption but do to actions after the beginning of the relationship –"

"– your actions, Sherlock." John interjected, which was really only fair. And of course Sherlock was _right,_ because it wasn't like any of his girlfriend's _actually_ thought he was gay, just overly devoted to his mad prat of a flatmate to the point where he was a pretty crap boyfriend. It wasn't easy to ignore Sherlock when he came calling but it wasn't impossible either, he could have paid a bit more attention but it was just…

Christ, he was too tired for this. There was definitely milk, though, so it wasn't all bad.

"Lestrade does not think you are gay, John, and yet every time he makes a joke you feel the irritating need to c_orrect _him. _Why are you so paranoid_? Why, John? Why does it bother you?"

"It's not about_ that_, Sherlock." John said as the kettle boiled. "Tea?"

Sherlock sent him a look.

In his mind, John really did think of them as sharing a bizarre sense of coupledom: not in the traditional sense, obviously, but their slightly unusual state of domesticity, and them working together and living together, and looking after each other. They were a couple, in a sense, and he'd accepted that the most important relationship in his life at the moment, and conceivable for quite some time, was with his genius consulting detective flatmate and he'd put that in the 'it's all fine' box and happily moved on from the issue.

There was really no use getting upset about it and he was sure _Sherlock _had deduced John's internal use of linguistics and that was, in part, whey Sherlock had been apparently put so much thought into John's continual denials of anything more than friendship. Because they were _more than friends _in the sense that friendship didn't really explain everything that was Sherlock-and-John, but that didn't – as people so often assumed – mean that they were fucking.

"You've opted out or you just aren't interested and that's all fine, Sherlock," John said, slumping back in his chair and glancing up at his mental flatmate feeling the exhaustion in his very_ bones, _"but given you're a 'high functioning sociopath' who likes to come across all clever and look like you don't eat or drink or whatever it is you think people believe, I just…"

"Go on."

"I just didn't think you'd like people think that we're back here shagging, when you clearly have a lot of distaste for something so _bloody human._ You think that people will think less of you if they can humanise you and _sex _is part of that, Sherlock so…"

"You humanise me."

"Well that's sort of the idea, yeah," John shrugged, taking another sip of his tea and closing his eyes, "I know you, Sherlock. And you're not…" John yawned, "you're not a sociopath who can ignore what your body wants at will, but if you like that image I'm not about to ruin it for you." John knew it was a very bad idea to fall asleep with a cup of tea in his hand whilst have a conversation about _this _of all things, but he was just so very, very tired.

"So," Sherlock said, "you deny it because you think it bothers _me."_

"And because it's not exactly true," John said, sleepily, "I think I'd remember if we'd had weird kinky sex in the shower, or something and…" John wasn't entirely sure what the end of that sentence was and was suddenly struck by the fact that, despite living with Sherlock for a frankly insane amount of time (by anyone's standards, living with Sherlock for more than a week was madness), he didn't think they'd ever talked about _sex. _

Then again, it was Sherlock, who – if you were to believe Mycroft –wasn't exactly experienced or bothered by matters. And John had come away from their conversation with the private conclusion of 'gay' (not that it mattered), and then there'd been that recent business with Irene Adler and that had blown all conceptions out of the water and John really didn't know _what _he thought about Sherlock ambiguous sexuality, or whether he wanted to think about it, or whether it really mattered to anything really.

He had tried to broach the matter to Sherlock. He'd gone with 'so, a dominatrix, huh?' and then Sherlock had given him a _look _and the next time he'd planned to ask… well, she'd gone and gotten herself killed (or, fake killed, as it turned out), had accused him and Sherlock of being a couple – which of course they were – whilst, according to Mycroft, falling in love with the bloke she'd been trying to trick. _That, _John decided, _had been a complicated relationship, _and had been more than a little glad when the whole thing was over and done with.

Plus, he'd been a little jealous. Not in _that_ sense, it's just he was used to being the most interesting person in the room in Sherlock's eyes, and then suddenly he was showing off extra-hard and there was odd sexual tension (and John thought he'd never think of _that _in relation to his flatmate) and it wasn't anything to do with John and Sherlock was blocking him out.

"You humanise me on your blog." Sherlock said.

"Bit different," John said, "I say you make mistakes and occasionally think about other's feelings, I don't imply that we're having it off."

"Why is that different?"

"Because it's true, Sherlock! You do make mistakes and you do occasionally think about other people's feelings and you do eat and drink and _sleep. _You don't, as far as I'm aware, do _that._ More to the point, _why does it bother you_?"

John had long since accepted that they were a couple. Non in the conventional sense, although John suspected that there was very little conventional about Sherlock bloody Holmes; they weren't, as others believed, unable to keep their hands off each other the second the door to 221B was shut behind them (mostly, the straining with keeping his hands under control was entirely channelled into not punching Sherlock in the face), not were their frequent ventures into a surprisingly variety of really quite nice restaurants actual 'dates.'

As far as John was concerned – although this apparently didn't match up with some of Sherlock's deductions – Lestrade did think that John was pining after his flatmate… and the Yarders had set up an extensive betting pool about whether they were shagging (John had often wondered how the hell Donovan thought she'd find out if they were). Either they thought they were already in a relationship and had just neglected to update the Facebook status, or they were debating how long it would be till the lust took over.

"I could."

"No, Sherlock, I really don't think you could," John said, not feeling half as sleepy anymore as he yet against pressed his hands into weary temple, and wondered why the hell this was happening today, "it's not like the earth goes round the sun nonsense, if you've deleted your sex drive you can't exactly relearn it. And before you argue that's _not _what happened please bear in mind that I do live with you and know enough about this area to have some authority on it."

"It's possible."

"You think you're capable of a sexual relationship?"

"Most people manage it," Sherlock said curtly, "can't be that hard."

John was going to make a joke at that point, but he thought by the fact that his lips were twisting upwards slightly and Sherlock was scowling at him that Sherlock had gotten the joke (and not appreciated it) without him having to speak.

"Sorry," John said, because with Sherlock you never knew the relevance of these things. Whilst, right now, John was sure Sherlock was just suffering some odd kind of post-case-failure (ish) trauma, his best mate could currently be going through a sex life crisis. He really shouldn't have gone out last night. Sherlock was right when he'd said he needed the sleep. "Why is this bothering you?"

"You're going to leave," Sherlock said imploringly, turning around and facing John with his eyes that special shade of manic.

"I am?"

"Yes, John, you're going to meet some _woman _and you're going to end up unhappy because there won't be _this _anymore, or _danger _but you'll marry her anyway because –"

"Sex?" John prompted, now feeling more awake than he had done in years, because this – from Sherlock – was probably going to be the emotional talk of the century. And he'd only drank half of his tea. And the rest was cold. "And you think that you can flick some internal switch in your brain and you'll suddenly be interested in sex and we'll have a lifelong gay partnership solving crimes together? Jesus, Sherlock."

"You're not _entirely_ straight."

John wasn't even going to get into a debate about _that_ when this whole conversation was so bleeding ridiculous anyway. Especially given it was Sherlock he was bound to have produce some actual evidence to back up his point and then John would have to face his own life crisis (and, really, it would be a bit embarrassing coming our as _not entirely straight _at his age), when John was sure that… well. Jesus. He knew that thinking of him and Sherlock as an odd sort of asexual couple wasn't ruler-straight, but it wasn't…

"You're not entirely interested, _at all_."

"You're interesting."

Bloody hell.

"Is this a come on?" Sherlock sent him a withering look. "Sherlock, I'm not going to leave."

"You're _always _leaving for Jeanette or Jane or _Sarah." _

"Yes, well, we're not all above having a sexuality."

"Exactly!"

"Could we maybe have a conversation about this when I'm not dead tired from having chased an elderly woman across London, whilst hung-over, before knocking her out with a cricket bat?" John asked impatiently.

"You've just _said _you're not going to leave and marry one of them, yet continue to produce your irritating _girlfriends_, then the only reason that you're dating them is because –"

"- yes, thanks Sherlock," John muttered. "That's made me feel much better about myself, cheers. You're a right tosser, you know that?"

"I thought the whole point of this conversation was that I _wasn't_."

"Really don't think I can deal with this right now," John muttered, pinching the skin on his forehead and trying to make sense of what was happening, "is this all in some complicated way that a simpleton like me can't understand about not preventing the second murder?"

"No."

"In that case, I'm going to bed. If your sex drive regrows in the middle of the night, do feel free to come let me know."

"_John_."

"Oh, for God's sake. Look, I'm going to the loo. We'll continue_ this_, _whatever this is_, in a minute."

John was almost entirely sure that this conversation was going to kill him, and even more sure that if he lived it was going to be one of those things that he'd never be able to relay to anyone because it was just _too weird. _So, if he was going to die anyway, he might as well get one last loo-stop in before it all ended.

* * *

_Haven't written anything Sherlockian for ages and suddenly fancied it. This is going to be two parts and probably the closest thing to slash Johnlock that will ever come from my keyboard (maybe a bit more in the second part, who knows?), because I'm just really bad at writing such a pairing. Baahh. Reviews would be lovely. _


	2. Chapter 2

_First, thanks to deaka, XSommerRegen, Betty C and 'hehe' for the reviews! Really appreciate them! Secondly, I just wanted to say something about the time frame of this. So, basically, in my head this happens after Scandal but before Hound. In Scandal John is still religiously denying any comments about them being a couple, but by Hound he mostly lets them fly by (although I think that's partially because their not in London and unlikely to see the others again). Also, in Hound Sherlock's trying to give up cigarettes again where as in Scandal it's a big deal when he accepts the cigarette. There's a few more references to the time scale here so yeah, just making sure you're with me in this._

_Also, there's going to be a third fairly pointless part that I had sudden inspiration for. _

_Also, as much as I love reading Johnlock this is my actual view of the two of them as a real life sort of couple. Anyone with me on this? Eh, thanks for clicking to the second chapter for a read, either way :)_

* * *

The trouble with their less than conventional relationship was that everyone was continually trying to place them into a box that John just didn't think that it was possible for them to fit in. Sherlock did the same, of course, pigeon holing people after a glance with the pent up experience of seeing absolutely everything; _gay, straight, homicidal, adulterer._

In the time it took for John to be done in the bathroom – where he had, admittedly, dawdled excessively to the point of washing his hands by hospital standards rather than clean standards – he had woken John up enough for him to put some more thought in the matter. Sherlock had, on a previous occasion, gone through the thought process of working out when two people were shagging, or a newly fledge couple, or about to get engaged after John had seen him reveal too many secretary-boss sexual relationships and congratulated one poor woman before her future-fiancé had got round to asking the question (probably on purpose – wanker). And whilst John couldn't actually remember the logistics of it (there was definitely something about line of sight and positioning in the room) he had a sudden fleeting image of Sherlock watching _their _behaviour around each other and wondered what the hell he was coming up with.

He'd also decided, when washing his face, that the Irene Adler thing had definitely been a weird blip caused by the sense of puzzle, rather than by any sexual motivation, before changing his mind again. The result basically being that Sherlock's sexuality seemed to keep flipping through his brain at top speed until he yet again reached the conclusion that it _didn't sodding matter anyway _and trudging out of the toilet feeling a little more ready to face it all.

Course, by that point Sherlock had bloody disappeared. There was a moment of blind panic where John suspected that he'd really screwed up and Sherlock had done something drastic before the Sherlockian part of his brain rested on the fact that his coat was still on the back of the sofa. _Out for a cigarette then. _

And that one was definitely Irene Adler's fault.

He walked to the window and glanced down towards his smoking flatmates for a second before falling into the clutches of the sofa and really wanting to go to sleep.

John was not happy about Sherlock's renewed reliance on cigarettes, but he wasn't about to kick up a fuss when he could understand it both from medical and psychological terms. Whenever Sherlock seemed to feel like he was close to a relapse on terms slightly more serious than cigarettes, he'd give in in part and stick on three nicotine patches or purchase a packet of cigarettes so at least there was _something. _Plus, it seems not quite sober Sherlock could trust himself slightly more, which wasn't a good thing of course… and smacked of more self-awareness than John wanted to think about… but, this time, he'd taken to smoking outside rather than in the flat. Which from Sherlock was like an _I love you._ Or, near enough, in John's view.

He'd nag at him about giving up again at some point soon. If he survived this conversation.

"John," Sherlock said, sounding much more amiable as he stepped back into the flat. _Sodding nicotine. _

"If we're having this conversation," John said, still from his position on the sofa, "I need some more background information."

"What -?"

"Nope," John said, over Sherlock's scowl, "we can't all deduce things from the way your shoes are scuffed, or whatever. I need some cold hard facts. Is your brother right?"

"Rarely." Sherlock drawled.

"When was the last time, at any point, you had any form of _mildly _sexual relationship with another person. Even just… god, I don't know, I kiss." Sherlock seemed to have retracted into silence which, honestly, John had expected. "It doesn't matter," John said, "I'd just like to know."

"Why?"

"Because I _care_ about you, Sherlock. And I'm mildly concerned about _this _and what the hell's going on in your head. Oh, god's sake, whatever you say isn't going to change my opinion of you and I'm not going to leave and get married, okay? So just _tell me."_

"After," Sherlock said, his posture stiffening into hard edges and angles. John was aware of how uncomfortable this made his wonderful idiot of a flatmate and would normally have not bothered to push the matter, but the fact was that it was difficult to be so ignorant when Sherlock knew everything about him. And it did seem it might be relevant. _You can't hypothesis without data, John. _"After I left university."

'_Left university'_ was the standard euphemism for '_cocaine habits aren't compatible with degrees from Oxford'_ which John had more or less pieced together from scraps of information from Lestrade and Mycroft, discussion with Sherlock when he was willing to talk, and of course tosser-face Sebastian's drawling about how much _they hated him._ In John's mind, after university Sherlock spent the next few years in a drugged-up haze which didn't exactly seem compatible with having any form of relationship or sexual experience. He was living on the streets for God's sake, and if John had expected any sort of answer – which he wasn't sure he had – he'd really thought he'd have guessed a date _before _the drugs.

"You can tell you've never had a drug habit, John." Sherlock said with one of his superior rolls of his eyes. "Really, to miss something so _transparent._"

"Right," John said, feeling his irritation flair up all over again. Sherlock with his god damn cryptic answers and smarmy comments. With rooming with Sherlock he'd have shortened his life expectancy by a few years if only by increased blood pressure, let alone factoring in all the running around chasing murderers. "Fine, _oh wise one_. What's the crucial point I've missed here? Do tell me so I can start _worshiping _your superior intellect."

"Cocaine is expensive."

_Oh God. _

John didn't think he'd ever heard such a loud silence.

"Before that?" John said, eventually, with his best I'm an army-doctor-nothing-can-shock-me-voice which, at this point, was a complete fallacy. _Because this was Sherlock. _

To that, John got nothing but a very slight shake of the head.

But then that _did _make sense, because from what that Sebastian had said everyone hated Sherlock so with that level of animosity it didn't really seem like the right sort of environment for him to get laid, did it? And a couple of remarks from Sherlock and Mycroft seemed to imply that Sherlock spent most of secondary school with a broken nose (not that you could tell, of course, how Sherlock could be so damnably attractive _whilst _being the most irritating git John had no reason for) so that…

Well, deletion of whatever sexuality he'd ever had didn't exactly seem far off.

"Does Mycroft -?"

"–Mycroft rarely displays ignorance at will. He believes what he said." John swallowed and mentally tracked back to that conversation at the palace (and it's bloody weird that the first time John even considered the prospect of Sherlock's _virginity _was at Buckingham-sodding-palace). _Sex doesn't alarm me. How would you know?_ If Mycroft _knew _then even Mycroft wouldn't make comments like that and… "John," Sherlock said, with another how-stupid-are-you-glances, "you suppose I should talk to my _brother _about this? The same brother who convinced my mother to cut off my access to my trust fund after he realised his spies had failed to miss a _cocaine habit_?"

John really needed more sleep to be able to deal with this. He really really did.

"It doesn't matter." Sherlock said, waving this away.

"Well it _does_."

"You said, not ten minutes ago, that '_whatever you say isn't going to change my opinion of you_.'"

"The only thing my opinion has been changed of, Sherlock, is _this_ conversation. Ten minutes ago, your garbage about being able to maintain a sexual relationship could almost be described as _sweet,_ now it's just down right insulting. I'm _pissed off_. Look, Sherlock, I couldn't give a crap about what you've deduced about _us _but the fact of the matter is we're in this together and I _fully _intend on sticking around here for a really long time. And people are probably going to keep making gay comments for the rest of our lives and I'm probably going to keep telling them to shut up, but we _will _grow old together providing you don't get yourself _killed _before that can happen. You can't… you can't_ possibly_ think that you could… you could _buy me _with…"

"It's a matter of your happiness."

"But I am sodding happy!" John said, resisting the urge to throw his hands up in the air in frustration only in the name of criminal tiredness. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at him. "All right," John said, "I'm not exactly _joyous _right now, but I haven't exactly had a good day. I didn't wake up this morning expecting to take out a pensioner with a cricket bat and have my flatmate _indirectly _propose a gay relationship that neither of us want."

"It's…inconvenient for me when you're not here."

"You don't notice most of the time," John muttered, but he didn't mind really, because from Sherlock that was really quite the compliment. "So, that's what this is? _You don't need to leave to go on dates, John; I'll have sex with you_! Because that blatant lack of respect for your _own body _and what _you want _is just… I don't like it."

"It doesn't matter."

"It does," John said, "it really does. _Especially _given what you've just told me. Proposing, of course, that I was actually _interested _I'd be a right bastard for doing anything like that to you."

"You're not… uninterested."

"And," John said, "you can't _say _things like that to people. From now on, any deductions about people's sexuality remains _internal. _Boundaries."

"Jane is a closet lesbian," Sherlock said, glancing down at his hands looking largely uninterested, "coming off the back of her first fully fledged relationship with a woman, she's dating you to prove to herself – and her ex – that she's straight. I'd say your relationship has a maximum of about two days remaining before termination, possibly less." John gaped at him for a few seconds. "Although feel free to delete that information if you think it crosses _moral boundaries." _

"Why didn't you tell me three months ago?"

"Pointless," Sherlock said, "her flatmate _is _straight and was initial interested in you. She's much more your type. Significantly more likely to work out in the long run," John blinked. "I dislike wasting so much of my brain space having to deal with your _relationships _and ensuring that you don't find some woman so desperate to have children that she'd actually marry you. No offence intended, John, but considering your lack of commitment after the two month point in a relationship anyone who stuck around longer than that is quite clearly either broody or just plain desperate."

"How much do you think about this?"

"Like I said," Sherlock said, "it's _inconvenient_ for me for you to be distracted."

John wanted to say that Sherlock had no right to play around with his life like that, but he wasn't sure whether he truly believed that. He couldn't imagine what would actually happen if one of his relationships actually worked out – he was mainly working on the basis that they wouldn't, and it wouldn't be too long before the whole thing was over and he could legitimately write off dating for a while and spend all his time playing Cluedo with Sherlock, or whatever. Oddly, in that weird twisted way of his, John could just about believe Sherlock _almost _had his happiness in mind. Of course, that didn't mean he placed it above his own personal convenience, but it might have been a factor in all of this.

"What do you want me to say?" John asked, yawning again as the tiredness began creeping up his bones once again. "I don't see you like that. I'd never expect anything like that from you. And that's all fine. What's _not _fine is you trying to change yourself to _serve my interests _or keep me here or whatever your intentions were."

It was always downright odd for John to see Sherlock twist his expression into _normal _or _vulnerable _and cry on cue because a case required it, hated the idea of Sherlock turning this _fake self _on him in conversation and John just having to deal with it. He hated the idea that t_hat _Sherlock seem to resurface with the nicotine or the cocaine (one relapse since John had come into the picture – had terrified John into asking Mycroft _a lot _of questions about the previous issues), and he could pull off _charming _and _manipulative _and social interactions with relative ease, compared to the Sherlock who curled up on the sofa and couldn't stand the lack of stimulation. _I need a case, John. _He couldn't imagine Sherlock in that sort of situation at all.

It didn't help that the awareness of what Sherlock had just revealed was making John feel vaguely sick. And very sympathetic, which Sherlock wouldn't like at all.

"But if I were."

"What?"

"Gay! Straight! _Interested."_

"I suppose," John said, slowly, "maybe. But you're not. So it doesn't matter. I'm much too tired for hypothetical situations right now, Sherlock. And your pacing is making me nervous. Will you just sit down for a minute?"

Sherlock paused for a second before sitting down on the sofa and bringing his knees up to his chest, gaze firmly concentrated on an exact spot of air. Unblinking.

"What's wrong?"

"I didn't notice," Sherlock said, "the first victim had been sprayed by the late husband's aftershave – I _said _the old lady wearing the aftershave was _wrong _and you said _sentimental _and I trusted your opinion as _obviously _I have little knowledge about grief and all this _sentiment _– but if I'd only _thought _the scent was all wrong. The victim was a young man who wasn't attempting to seem older: he works in film, for god's sake, if anything he was trying to appear _younger _so it's just plain _illogical _for him to be wearing something like that. And the reason I didn't recognise it straight away was because underneath that aftershave was his _own _which was a much more sensible brand that actually made sense, and it wouldn't have been noticeable over the second scent had it not been for the moment of the death – just before he was about to go out – which was what I chalked up the excess of scent too, anyway. But it was _stupid _not to make the connection between the two _wrong _scents actually being _the same smell because _-"

"Sherlock," John said, interrupting him with a hand on his shoulder – because with every sentence the angle of Sherlock's limbs seemed more acute, and he looked more akin to a ticking time bomb with every second. Sherlock's shoulder's slumped down. "You solved a sodding murder case by identifying _after shave, _okay. That's bloody _brilliant. _And if you hadn't been on the case she'd have polished off the whole family before anyone put the piece together. No one is criticising you."

"But it makes you unhappy when I fail to save someone's life."

"You did everything you could do. It makes me _unhappy _when I feel like you don't care."

"And what if I don't?"

"You're right. If I cared about every one of my patients and everyone I lost I'd never have been able to face work in the morning."

"You still care."

"Well, so do you," John muttered, yawning again. "Now, do you want to talk some more about our relationship status or can I put the TV on?"

"Relationships are not exactly my area," Sherlock said, now reverting to a version of himself which looked younger and slightly more pathetic. The sort of Sherlock who'd pass out due to not sleeping or eating or would actually admit things about how he _felt. _"I don't understand why you're happy here."

"I'm not sure I really get it myself," John said, shrugging slightly, "but we are what we are and that's the way it is. And I like it and I'm not staying and I'll try to limit _girlfriend _time if that helps you concentrate, or whatever, and you know… just because _sex_ most definitely isn't your area, doesn't mean you can't ask for a hug if you want one."

"Why would I -?"

"No reason," John interjected, rolling his eyes as he reached for the remote and switched on the television. There was some overly romantic chick-flick on, to which John flicked over immediately until he found something which looked like it could be a murder mystery that Sherlock would pretend not to enjoy. He was feeling particularly anti-romantic at the moment: if you ignored the fact that his current girlfriend was, apparently, in denial about her sexuality, there was still the fact that he and Sherlock _were _a couple of sorts and all this romantic bullocks lead to all these stupid assumptions about what couples should be and how they should act.

And hell, he fully intended to spend the rest of his life with his idiot of a flatmate. He genuinely believed that life had purposefully led him to this place, where on any given day he could be wearing his pyjama bottoms under his trousers for over twenty hours. He loved his idiot of a flatmate as much as he'd ever loved anyone, really, and couldn't think of any other place he'd rather be then squashed up on a sofa silently finding amusement in Sherlock's continual sighs at the on-screen-detective's stupidity. _This _was what made him happy and what had made him happier than any other relationship ever had done, and 'romance' could be blame for all the misconceptions and idiocy that came with the expectations of what they _should _be doing behind closed doors.

He didn't think Sherlock would have wasted brain space on the issue at all had it not been for everyone's continual belief that there was only one way to be together, or in love, or meant to be together, or friends, or flatmates, or whatever anyone wanted to label them as.

_Christ _John was tired.

"It's the grandmother," Sherlock said, nudging John in the ribs and nodding at the screen, "it's the old lady."

"Of course it is," John mumbled, half asleep all ready, "it always bloody is."

"They didn't consider sex as a motive." Sherlock said.

"He should take her out with a cricket bat," John said, "very effective."

"Bloody TV produces. _Transparent._"

"Stop moving your shoulder, will you, I'm trying to sleep."

"On _my_ shoulder."

"I'd have been in bed hours ago if you hadn't… hadn't started questioning my sexuality and… dropping bombshells and… oh, sod it, just _shut up _and stop smirking so I can sleep."

_See, _John thought just before he lost consciousness, _only couples bicker like that. _


	3. Chapter 3

He hadn't minded at first.

He wasn't as entirely averse to physical contact with John, as compared to physical contact with other people: normally, it irritated him when people insisted on touching his arm, brushing against him, any form of unwelcome _contact_, but John – as per – was a special case. So, he hadn't been bothered when a near unconscious John had rested his head against his shoulder. In fact, their shared space on the sofa had been almost _nice. _

And after the detective show had reached its frankly pitiful conclusion, Sherlock had fallen asleep. And that had been fine, too. There was something almost _pleasant _about the closeness of waking up _resting _on John was John _resting _on him, and he'd spent the next half an hour indulging in the sentiment and about how it wasn't that bad really (he'd never really understood the prospect of _sharing a bed_ with someone or how that could possibly be pleasant, but maybe there was _something _in it), but the problem became clear at the point where Sherlock began to get bored.

Because John was _still asleep _and didn't look like he was about to wake up at any point soon.

It wasn't like Sherlock had any aversion to waking his flatmate up or otherwise disrupting his sleep pattern, but John had been beyond the usual levels of tired last night and given Sherlock was already expecting John to be mad at him when he woke up for _other reasons _(reasons which he couldn't regret, but were likely going to end badly) he didn't want to increase that by waking him up now. Plus, the reality of waking John up was a lot more acute when John was _on his shoulder._

He didn't want to disturb him but, at the same time, he needed John _off his shoulder _right now or he didn't know what he was actually supposed to _do. _Stillness was fine when it was self-enforced; often necessary when there was too much data and he found an exact _position _where he could reregulate his thoughts and not be overwhelmed by the sheer amount of _fact _the world readily gave, but it wasn't fine _right now _because it wasn't his choice, and it was claustrophobic and restricting and _not good. _

Sherlock tried to shrug his shoulder away from John, thinking that perhaps the man might just _move _in his sleep riddled safe if Sherlock was uncomfortable enough. He couldn't be that _comfy _anyway given he was wearing a suit not designed for sleeping on, and his shoulders were all too bony to be used as substitute pillows. He wasn't exactly _cuddly. _

John nestled closer into his shoulder.

Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to think about something else, _anything else, _other than the fact there was no real way to _escape _this physical contact until John woke up which could take hours, less Sherlock take matters into his own hands, which he didn't _really_ want to do because he didn't want to piss John off further, and he was rapidly _running out of viable options. _

It did also mean that John was possibly right about Sherlock's inability to participate in a remotely sexual relationship. The fact that John was so blessedly _understanding _about it all was really for the best. If only the man would wake up or otherwise remove his head from Sherlock's shoulder and actually be able _to see _things that were right under his nose, the man would be perfect.

~BREAK~

Greg and John had reached an understanding that, if for any reason the doorbell to 221B wasn't answered, he was perfectly within his rights to come right up. It was a matter of practicality, as if Sherlock was in a bad mood with his violin then the doorbell usually went unheard, or at any given point the TV could be turned up to top volume, the two of them been taken hostage by some nutter with a gun and some duct tape, or Sherlock could be too damn lazy to answer the door himself. If Greg actually and continually waited for a response to text messages or the doorbell, they might end up missing a nice fresh crime scene.

When Greg had first walked straight up the stairs with Sally in tow, the woman had been oddly horrified and fascinated all that same time. _What if you walked into something personal? _Sally had asked, which Greg took to mean she too believed that John and Sherlock were involved intimately and biblically behind closed doors. Greg's '_hate to disappoint you, Donovan, but the most personal scene I've walked in on was an argument about the milk rota' _had caused Sally to make a face, but Greg had thought the moment had been quite cute in itself.

This, however, was entirely different.

They were asleep on the sofa. Greg made an involuntary noise something between a snort and an _aww _before he managed to shut himself up, slightly concerned about what would happen if he woke the two of them up and Sherlock's reaction to Greg being privy to _this. _John too, actually, as the man was so determined with his _'not gays' _that Greg really did try his best to believe them.

He was very glad that he'd told Sally to wait in the car.

"What?" Sherlock asked, his eyes still shut.

"Case," Greg said, as Sherlock opened his eyes – very much conscious – and turned to face him looking ever so slightly manic.

"John is asleep."

"I can see that," Greg said, trying not to laugh.

"_On me_."

"Yes," Greg agreed, "well, he did look pretty tired yesterday." Sherlock's expression triggered something in Greg's mind. "You didn't keep him up _after _you got back, did you? Sherlock, the man hadn't slept in _days _it looked like."

"It was important," Sherlock said, "how do I get him off my shoulder?"

"Wake him up?" Greg suggested, very much struggling to keep a straight face. "How do you normally er… wake him up?" The comment was worth the dirty look from Sherlock, that was for sure.

"Given it's my fault he hasn't slept," Sherlock said – Lestrade bit back his grin – "I didn't want to."

Downstairs, the doorbell rang again in the usual aggressive way Lestrade associated with Donovan. She flat out refused to enter 221B on her own without announcing her presence first.

"S'that the door?" John asked, groggily, before removing his head _off _Sherlock's shoulder and blearily opened his eyes. "Get the door, Sherlock."

"It's Lestrade and Donovan," Sherlock said, standing up and moving swiftly _away _from John towards the other side of the room. Greg was trying really hard to stop grinning. "Case."

"Morning John," Greg said, "wasn't expecting to see you here this morning."

John had been in the middle of a rather elaborate dream involving his blog and creating a 'FAQs' section involving all the daily questioned that seemed to plague him. The questions scoped from _'is Sherlock Gay?' _(answer: who the hell knows) to '_are you and Sherlock together?' _(answer: in an asexual couple sort of way, yes. In a consummated way, no. Be the plan is to grow old together so take from that what you will) and, of course, 'do you love Sherlock Holmes?' (answer: of bloody course).

The dream was as unrealistic as dreams were, given it wasn't anyone's business what was going on between the two of them and he certainly wouldn't put anything like that on the blog unless Sherlock gave him the okay, and he wasn't about to restart that conversation with Sherlock again anytime soon. Providing Sherlock knew that John had zero intention of leaving and was very much dedicated him, then the whole definition part of things probably wouldn't do either of them any good.

And then the doorbell went and he was vaguely aware that he was both sleeping on Sherlock and that Greg Lestrade was grinning at him.

"Sorry?" John asked, rubbing his face in attempt to feel slightly more conscious.

"This morning," Greg said, "I was expecting you to be at Jane's?"

"Why?" John asked, just as Sally Donovan appeared in the doorway looking impatient, which led to John wondering just how long Greg had been there before he'd woken up. Frankly, he was too tired to care. And Greg may have got an eyeful of John sleeping on Sherlock's shoulder, but it wasn't like either of them were naked or in a bed or anything. It was perfectly acceptable and _all fine. _

"Well," Greg said, looking slightly awkward for a second, "it was Valentine's day yesterday?"

Oh _shit._

Oh God, he was the worst boyfriend e_ver. _He'd spent Valentine's Day knocking out pensioners and having a discussion about sexuality with his tosser of a flatmate (never mind coming to the conclusion that Sherlock was likely his life partner, minus the sex). He'd made reservations at some stupid restaurant and _how the hell had he managed to forget?_

"_Sherlock!" _John said, whirling around to face his _arse_ of a flatmate. "Did you sodding plan this?"

"Tea, John?" Sherlock suggested lightly.

"_You arse! _So when you said my relationship with Jane had a two day life span max, _this _is what you meant? That you'd made some _elaborate scheme _to ensure I bloody forgot _Valentine's Day."_

"You were too tired to go out anyway." Sherlock said, waving this away.

"Yes, well," John said, "I'd have at least _apologised _to her. Sherlock, what did you do to my phone?" Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled out a sim card from his top pocket. John thought this moment was right up there with the angriest he'd been with Sherlock to date. _Really. Bloody really. _He'd fallen asleep last night feeling entirely _comfortable _with everything that they were and weren't, and finally feeling like Sherlock might be too… so to wake up and find that the whole thing had been an elaborate rouse was just _beyond _his usual levels of shit.

"The case?" Sherlock asked, turning to face Lestrade.

"Right," Lestrade said, glancing at John for a second who was still positively _shaking _with rage, "originally looked like a standard case of domestic murder, but the DNA of the brother was found under her fingernails. He's been a missing person for over a decade."

"Coming, John?"

"Not bloody likely," John muttered, having finally removed Sherlock's replacement sim card and put his own back into his phone. "I've got to go to grovel."

"John," Sherlock said, turning to face him, "given events and the growing use of expletives in the later text messages, I really think that you'd be wasting your time. Particularly given the fact that you are her _rebound _from her relationship with _another woman _and, considering the previous discussion we had whilst you were _supposed _to be out for dinner with her where you quite clearly stated you were not planning on getting married that suggests you probably weren't that into her anyway. Former mentioned grovelling is going to be futile, pointless and a waste of both of our time. She wouldn't have forgiven you for cancelling dinner anyway; particularly when your excuse was that you were busy knocking out a pensioner or, more likely, you'd just tell her 'case' and she'd ask for details and you'll refuse to give any. You don't care, she doesn't care and this entire exercise was designed to be time efficient, John, so please show some _common sense, _block her number from your phone and consider this a cease and desist on any hope of dating brainless and irritating women in the near future."

"Jesus," John muttered, "you are _ridiculous._"

And probably right, John added silently, always probably and damnably _right. _

John vaguely registered that Greg and Sally were still stood awkwardly hovering in the doorway and was beginning to wonder what exactly they were going to gleam from being witness to _this. _Because anyone could read that Sherlock was _jealous _through that garbage. And it was a mark of how patient John was beginning to become that he was secretly _pleased _about the jealousy, as well as being a bit bloody pissed off.

"If you wanted to spend time with me," John said, squaring up his shoulders and glancing back to Sherlock, "you could have just bloody s_aid_."

Sherlock's lips thinned slightly.

"Text me the address of the crime scene, Detective Inspector, we'll be there in half an hour."

"John?" Lestrade questioned.

"Yes, fine," John said, "but I need to get changed." He didn't add that he was still wearing his pyjamas from the previous night underneath his clothes, but the amused look from Sherlock seem to indicated that Sherlock was fully aware of the fact. Bastard.

"Forty five minutes," Sherlock said, "and if Anderson's_ ruined_ the crime scene then -"

"- you'll frequently call him an idiot," Greg supplied, "yes, we know. I'll make sure no one else touches anything."

"No elderly women involved in this one are they?" John asked hopefully.

"Not a wrinkle in sight," Lestrade said, unable to prevent himself from glancing between them, winking at John and grinning before exiting their flat again. John didn't even want to _look _at the expression on Sally Donovan's face.

"I'm still pissed," John said, turning round to face Sherlock properly, "really pissed, actually Sherlock. And later we're going to have another discussion about _keeping your nose out of my business."_

"John," Sherlock said, "it's inconvenient when you're away and…"

…And Sherlock had been crashing off a semi failure and seriously been questioning the whole status of their relationship because of it. As much as John was loathe to admit it, even just internally, he wouldn't have wanted to leave Sherlock alone in such a state to go on some half-arsed date with Jane. But _still _changing the sim on his phone was that little bit far.

"Sherlock, if you need me just s_ay,_ okay? Not a mind reader. Anyway, I need a shower and a cup of tea and a few minutes to breathe deeply and concentrate on not hitting you in the face."

"Dinner tonight?"

"Sorry?"

"Dinner." Sherlock repeated.

_If you wanted to spend time with me you could have just bloody said._ Well, John supposed, the fact that Sherlock was actually listening to him was progress.

"Tonight, with you, on the fifteenth of February?" John repeated, eyebrows raised and staring at him.

"Problem?"

"Can we talk about the cigarettes?" John asked, folding his arms. Sherlock nodded. "Fine. Good. Excellent."

And thus, it was back to normal – without the girlfriends – and that was fine and all good, and if he really pushed the 'you changed the sim on my phone' he might actually talk Sherlock into giving up smoking again, and that really would be better for all involved.

* * *

**_And we're done! This was a slightly pointless third part, but I had an extra plunny for this chapter so I thought I might as well give into it. Thanks for all the lovely reviews guys! :)_**


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